Ther's plenty of time to cry,
and to love, and to sing.
Heaven and hell wait for us to choose.
to be selfish, or be free.
Theres plenty of time to watch the flowers grow.
To listen to the birds live.
as they reach to the world then taken by the wind.
If only we could see it all.
all the times we didnt have.
As the colors in my eyes fade away.
The innocence once glowing is barely a spark taken by surprise.
And as they chant inside my head beauty is only an illusion.
A dove in the magicians hands.
An illusion of love.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem